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thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tampered2007-09-24 11:14 am
thunderwitch.livejournal.com) wrote in tampered2007-09-24 11:14 am
Log; Complete
When; Sept. 23rd, night
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Cirucci {![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
thunderwitch} & Ishida {anti_buttons}
Summary; After fleeing Noitora's wrath over what she can and cannot say about his fracción, Cirucci seeks safety in the nearest building without considering who could be living inside.
Log;
A slow day lead to a slower night, broken up only by a somewhat trying visit with Yagami-san and coffee. Ishida had begun work on the dress requested by Kira the day before. After a morning visit to the Range, he had spent the afternoon with needle and machine, met with
Yagami-san, and now, stood over the table in his kitchen, deliberating on what book, rented from the Library, to next begin. The City routine, somewhat broken up, or given more flavor, by the necessity of employment, had begun again.
A kettle on the stove had not yet steamed into hissing, enough water inside for two cups, as Ishida had carried personal routine to the City as well. After another minute, his hands fell onto a book, and turning over its stiff cover, flipped pages to the first. Ishida stepped back from the table, his neck bent toward the volume even as he maintained a loose posture. His hip jutted against the counter beside the stove, and he read, waiting for his tea.
>>>
It hurt, it hurt, it fucking hurt. It always hurt when he got mad at her. He never put off his violence or his anger, and honestly, she’d been asking for it. Picking at Tesla, mocking him… and yet, at the same time, her pride, that damnable pride that was always getting her into trouble, wouldn’t allow her to just keep quiet while he went about his business. She had to mock the Espada, especially had to mock the fifth, the Quinta… her rank.
Cirucci Thunderwitch wasn’t quite sure which building she was near anymore, she just stumbled in the nearest one. Roof, roof, wanted to get to the roof, could maybe get to the roof of her own building that way, get to her apartment and lay down to die. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. Lay down and ache, more like. The 105th dragged herself slowly up the stairs, bruised legs quaking occasionally, small hands every now and then having to brace on the wall and pause to pant, to wipe a spot of blood off her crushed lips, to sneer at the sticky feeling between her legs, and continue. Fucking Espada. Another step. Fucking Quinta. A low growl that ended in a groan of pain. Fucking Noitora.
She’d had to wait, bide her time and take it, until he had stopped to mock her again, stopped to take a break and watch her choke on her shame. But she’d bolted, instead.
Elevator… there was one of those, right? The Privaron detoured, leaving the stairwell to stagger down the hallway, glad no one was out. She would hate to have to kill someone in this state for seeing her so weak, so bloody, so used. Hated it, hated that her steps were slow and trembling, sore, that she stumbled and had to catch herself on the wall, sliding down tiredly. But no one was around, so it was okay, was too weak to catch the hidden reiatsu behind the door she leaned again, hanging her head.
Fuck.
>>>
Ever sensitive to reiatsu, he detected her well before she had entered the building. Hairs lifted along the back of his neck and a thin, near invisible line of tension settled against his shoulders, his eyes focusing no longer on the black-printed words. The Thunderwitch had made her "claim" on him so persistent that, even after his time away, longer for the City and so aggravatingly brief for his mind: the rush of irritation, it was near instinct: Ishida scowled, his eyes already rolling. Really, he should have been surprised she hadn't come sooner.
This time, however, instinct was short-lived, replaced fast by suspicion. Her reiatsu fluctuated, at times swelling in bursts that were never quite intimidating, at others as weak as a heartbeat. He could reason out any number of causes, of motivations for the Thunderwitch, and yet, neither fit well-enough with what he knew of her. Ishida, noting the page number before he shut it, set the book onto the counter, unsurprised that the pressure of her spirit power stopped at his door. A dull sound reached through the walls – his brow furrowed, and Ishida waited.
Not for very long . He had no intention of tolerating the wavering taunt of her reiatsu outside his door all night, and strode with purpose to the front door. Pulling it open with a solid jerk, Ishida opened his mouth to demand a simple expulsion, and luckily, his reflexes proved more capable than his mind, shocked when the Privaron toppled bodily backwards, the support of the door removed from her.
"Wh-what—?!" he sputtered, but he did not jump back in a panic, instead catching her easily, a fluid response, on arm around her shoulders and another stabilizing at her legs. Ishida would have been tempted to drop her, knowing it was her, only—with ever-widening eyes, he took in the Privaron's state, and rather forgot his clutch on disgust.
>>>
She hated that the first thing out of her mouth was a whimper, when muscles she had let limp had to suddenly tense again when her support was yanked out from under her, had to tense in anticipation of hitting the floor. But she didn’t hit the floor, and now that he was right there she could tell who it was. Of all the- He’d not… which building was this…
Several emotions flit easily readable across her face. Shock. Disgust. Anger. Shame. Small hands finally moved, grabbed the hemline of her dress that was riding up her thighs and exposing the bruises in the shape of fingers, tugging it down as subtly as she could. He couldn’t… no one was allowed to see her like this, especially not him.
Cirucci wanted to speak, to yell at him or say something, anything, that could preserve her dignity, regain a little pride, but she opened her mouth and no words came out, had to double over to cough on blood instead, feel crimson running down her chin, body burning and flushed with shame from this weakness.
>>>
It had to be a trap. Ishida watched with too-alert comprehension at the emotions on her face, in his ears that sound too bizarre coming from her, that whimper. His eyes followed the movements of her hands, his own unmoving in his stupor. He didn't understand, yet, what it all meant, or why she should be here, looking as displeased with it as he had been only seconds before.
Then, blood. Ishida nearly recoiled, only blood wasn't new to him, and a fatal concern began to pierce the veil of his bewilderment. What, he wanted to say, mouthed it again, why, but instead forced his voice to business, brisk and hard, an attempt to cover his worry for a woman, no, an Arrancar he didn't care for in the least. The least.
"Can you stand?" He asked, his grip on her shoulder shifting as his fingers found a more solid hold. His other hand lifted, dipped into a pocket and retried a blue handkerchief, which he gently mopped over her chin and mouth. Ishida looked her over once more, stepping over panic to consider the evidence of her wounds, searching for cause and appropriate treatment. Ishida could handle basic first aid with little problem, but anything else… Trap, his mind insisted, but in this moment the Privaron looked a broken woman, and Ishida failed to see anything else.
>>>
“I-“ She tried to bark it out, commanding, powerful, but it came out weak and she hated it, soft and gurgling. The Privaron began to struggle, not so much at him so much as to stand, recoiling somewhat from the gentle touch of hankerchief on her bruised lips, responses bringing winces from her, aggravating a reddened cheek, the purple tint to one eye.
“I’m fine-“ She got out, struggling weakly to her feet, as she did wincing again, trying to hide it, anything to try and hide it, hide that struggling up bared her thighs, the bruises there and the smears of blood and something else, grasping at the doorframe with both dirtied hands to support herself.
“What-“ She tried to sneer but it was half-hearted, too much effort right now. “Do you care any-“ Her eyelashes fluttered, felt dizzy and the room spun, almost sending her crashing to the floor again but she held on, purple eyes dazed. “Way…”
>>>
Ishida could see that she looked awful; it was uncomfortable to look even to analyze, and the product of the analysis should have been obvious, only the answer was too terrible for him to readily accept. Even for her. Her let her struggle, somewhat relieved when she managed to stand and he could let go. Narrowed eyes observed her without blinking, anticipating a second fall.
"Of course you are," fine, Ishida said, in a tone that could rival sandpaper, "and of course, I don't—" finished as he chose to avoid another possible fall and, putting aside embarrassment for necessity, swept her off her feet, an arm under her neck and an other under her knees. He walked as if he knew where he meant to put her, but at the last second decided against the couch, which wasn't quite long enough for her to be comfortable, which did not provide as much space as the other, somewhat aggravating option—he turned and carried the Thunderwitch into his bedroom, setting her onto his quilt, over fresh changed sheets.
What had happened, the necessary deduction, had begun to dawn on him, and he grimaced with a mixture of horror and disgust as he pivoted away from the sight. Ishida retreated to his bathroom, crouching to retrieve a first aid kid from under the sink, as well as a few washcloths from the hamper.
>>>
“What the fu-“ She hadn’t even protested once he picked her up, delicate form light, avian in that respect, though lacking the easily breakable hollow bones. Her entire body tensed, grimacing as he pressed into bruisings and sensitive places, made her bite down on her lip and just be shocked. Why was he- She needed to leave- This wasn’t-
Her thoughts were as muddled as her sight, still somewhat dazes from a blow to the head that had left the side of her head bloodied, from the other hits, the fist in her face and the slaps against her cheek, one, two, until she admitted anything that was wanted from her. And it was so damned ironic, his bed, he was putting her there, that as he left she started to laugh, a bitter, almost manic noise, wheezy and breathless, body half curling in on itself, hands arranging, tugging down her skirt hem though that did no good to hide the evidence of shame, arranging collar so that the rips where her dress had been torn off didn’t bare anything but collar bone, one hand covering her eyes as she laughed bitterly.
This was too shameful. Too funny.
>>>
Her laughter followed him, but he had ignored it, trudging on with his intention despite all reason. A wash bin, located beneath the pipes, he filled with warm water. Distancing himself from the taut, reflexive outrage at her state was a difficult thing, outrage at obvious rape, something impossible to stomach, one of what he knew to be unforgivable. What he needed to do, he recognized, was concentrate on her injuries and how best to treat them, even with his insufficient medical knowledge. Even with her being what she was.
With the bin, cloths, and kit larger than the portable one he kept in his bag, Ishida returned to his room, to the crumpled Arrancar, her shoulder jutting at its unnatural angle, the numerous, numerous lesions, swellings of skin and color, blood lining her waist and smeared on her thighs. Resolve was a grimace, curiosity as to who suppressed. He set the bin onto his bedside table, the kit on the edge of the bed, where he snapped it open. Gloves were retrieved, slid on.
Ishida dipped one cloth into the water, lifted it free and squeezed, turning his attention to her waist. To get a better look at the wound, he attempted to peel back the probably tear in her uniform, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, his touch clinical.
"…You'd have been luckier outside Ryuuken's door," he remarked, a backhanded compliment to his father's ability as a doctor, and his own inexperience.
>>>
Her laughter choked out, died in her throat when he came back in the room. Her eyes widened, dilating, not in… not in fear, no, but…
“What are you-“ She tried to shy away from his hands, throat bobbing nervously but it ended in her arm giving out with a barely there flutter, the shoulder popping ominously, as she fell back, trying to curl away, move and avoid, but nothing responded right and she hated it-
“I’d-“ She choked, on bile, on blood, hand rising to try and rub blood off her face but ended up slipping and smearing crimson over the starch white bone mask on her forehead. “Be better off back with- Back with Noitora-“ She tried to laugh again but it came out harsh and far too loud.
“Going to kill me Quincy?” She lay on her back, grinning up and peeling her uniform away where his hand was, baring the crescent moon cut of the Espada’s zanpakutou, a cut that was repetitive, over and over on her hips when she’d thrashed and bucked against the pin.
>>>
Could have winced at the sound of her shoulder, Ishida could have rolled his eyes again and made a retort to her unfinished question, but he stilled, in brief, to watch her weak squirming. Something soft, strained, unreadable settled in his eyes, something like sympathy, that dangerous, stupid foothold of his.
Noitora, then, and Ishida filed away the information, his disgust with the Espada. Her laugh was grating, and his teeth gritted in his mouth, the muscles in his jaw close to aching. "By all means," he said, a dry taunt that very much doubted her ability to even stand, never mind wander back to the Espada. She exposed her skin, and for the moment, he did not answer, instead taking in the cut. The shape of it told him she'd struggled.
Ishida began to clean the wound, at least mop up enough blood to observe its depth. He could deduce the reasoning behind it, not to cut her in half, but… He shook his head. "Killing you would be pointless, Thunderwitch. About as pointless as what I am doing, and will do."
>>>
An insult bubbled to her throat but it died, cut off with a choked back whimper and her legs kicked out weakly, writhing in pain at the touches on the wound, knees drawing up and trying to curl in but failing, only aggravated the bruisings all along her thighs and higher, working arm moving to cover her face, her lips trembling as her legs moved in spasms.
“I fucking hate you…” The Thunderwitch grit out but it had no fire in it, not much of her usual pride or flair. Just a broken statement. And in that moment she hated him more than she ever had before, because he was seeing her like this, seeing her so weak and so injured, so used and dirty and foul and-
“Fuck-” She tried to laugh again but that died too, shriveled with her pride and burned. “Damn it…” She went limp, shoulder twisted out and oddly angled, fingers twitching sporadically and the ones covering her face scrabbling weakly over her eyes, bruised lips twisted into a sneer of self-hate.
>>>
"You'll only aggravate things, thereby increasing the pain, if you keep moving," Ishida said, a monotonous reprimand, the cloth slipping beneath the sliding of her skin, watery red trailing thin around the wound. His free hand hesitated to be a steadying force on her hip, to touch her even through the glove.
She hated him, and he failed to see the irony, weeks and weeks ago his own desperation to not receive aid in his sickness from the Thunderwitch, to maintain his pride and absence of debt. She hated him—Ishida heard it with apathy, and did not overanalyze his reasons. Once having cleaned away excess with the cloth, he dipped and squeezed through the basin, fishing from the kit alcohol wipes and bandaging.
"This will burn," he added, before making use of the wipes, tempted to laugh himself as her laughter died. What was he doing, his mind wondered, underneath this summoned front of detached assistance.
Helping the Thunderwitch, who no doubt deserved whatever she had got – couldn't think that, not really, not when it was what was unforgivable, and there Ishida made her too human, again – letting her bleed on his bed and writhe and curse him. He wanted to scowl at himself, did, briefly, the twist on his thin lips shaping before he could and did return it to the line of indifference. Doubt had no place here, now, and he shook it from mind, free to thrash himself later.
>>>
At his hand, on her hip, pressing down on her hip, the Privaron stiffened, eyes flying open and her hand leaving her face, revealing one that, while not blatantly readable, hide thinly veiled fear. Fear, overwhelming fear of something recent and horrifying. The fear of that blade around her middle and the threat that if she didn’t say the right things, moan the right things, beg the right things, that the blade would snick down just a little bit, just enough until she was more than one piece.
There was little doubt in her mind that she had barely managed to say enough of the right things to escape that this time, to escape the cero in her face that instead burned her side, the thrashing rubbing it bloody again, managed to beg the right way to make sure her awkward shoulder was only dislocated, wasn’t ripped free by bony fingers.
“No.” She choked out, writhing harder and bucking up against his hand, nothing strong, wasn’t capable of anything that was a strong movement right now, serving now only to reopen half closed wounds, renew a trickle of blood between her legs, make her breath shallow and fast.
>>>
No -- the transparent fear on her face, in her eyes around which purple skin swelled, her reaction that so went against all of his previous understandings of the Thunderwitch, made him recoil. She bucked and his hand shot back as if it had been burned, and Ishida took a step back, his face pinched into a fleeting expression of panic, of dismay, he would never, and all at once, his entire thrown on persona of rigid, stern professional crumbled.
The wipe was crumpled in his hand, and pinkish alcohol had dripped over the end of the glove, making a small drip over his pale wrist, stopping in brief against the chain of his Quincy pendant. What had been done to her, it's association with him, his unwillingness to see her like this and do nothing, was overwhelming, but he focused on the last, summoning back his nerve.
"Y-you would need stitches or – " Well, the help of any remarkable City healer, Zaheela-san one of them. Ishida had stitched countless tears in stuffed animals and fabric within a heartbeat, yet skin and blood was different. "But, for now, I'll just…"
He trailed off, lapsing into an irritating spell of uncertainty.
>>>
She trembled, quieted again, flushing in shame. Shame, that she would react like that… this wasn’t Noitora. That human boy, as hated, as… as reviled as he was, wasn’t as reviled and hated as Noitora was. When he opened his mouth to speak it wasn’t the number five, not her number five on his tongue. He didn’t grin, that manic, horrible grin that promised to make her scream. His hands weren’t those hands, those bony, long fingers hands that tangled in her hair and yanked, that ripped white fabric and pressed her face into the ground.
“…” The Privaron’s shame, her fear, had been betrayed by her body and she knew she couldn’t take it back, could only cling to some shred of dignity and fist her working hand, the other one twitching in response, eyes staring hard at the ceiling.
“Just fix it.” She grit out, stiff lipped, stilling the motions in her hips, in her body, trembling in self-loathing, in anger at herself, more than anything else.
>>>
The color on her cheeks could have been caused by anything, and Ishida did not immediately identify shame, too caught up in his own relief that she had come to a degree of sense, and no longer equated him with the Espada. That she then requested his help furthered his resolve, only, stitching a wound had to be, was different from stitching an animated stuffed "lion", though he hadn't skimmed his father's books in years by virtue of forced distance. Self-doubt was unlike him, though he had read about the treatment of various wounds so to be capable of treating himself and not running to the loathed Hospital in the event of a Hollow related injury. He had read of the process, but never had to employ it.
Yet, that had been more than enough in every other circumstance, and among Ishida's faults there was an absolute… overconfidence in his own ability. His decision, on the brink of finality, was given the final push by a shrill, high-pitched sound: the teapot.
Ishida started, jumping more with his upper body, but did not lose hold of the wipe, and looked over his shoulder, toward the open door. His mouth shaped into a thin, curling smirk. It was a little ironic.
Without another word, he left the room, collection the teapot and fetching a saucepan into which to pour the boiling water. Carrying it to the bedroom, he gripped the wash bin one-handed to set it on the floor and the pot in its place. His sewing kit then fetched from a drawer, Ishida tried not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of a sixteen year old moderate seamster presuming to stitch a wound like hers – and, after sterilizing a needle and length of black thread, confirming the wound to be as clean as he could discern, braced himself and set to the task.
It was slower than working with something stuffed—one stitch at a time, plunging the needle through the cut, inching it out the other side, pulling the skin taut, knotting the thread. Repeat. It was absolutely insane.
>>>
In, rip, out, rip, in, rip, out, rip. It was a motion something altogether remnisicient of another, dirtier act, but this hurt so much less than that one, was shameful, that she would be needing it, but was so much less shameful than the other act.
The Privaron was far too stiff, tense and nervous, disgusted and ashamed, feeling blood leaking from the burns on her side, the sticky, tacky blood between her legs that she unconsciously drew together, pressed her thighs together until it hurt, the dried blood on the side of her head, on her hands and in the wound he was sewing up.
In, rip, out, rip, in, rip, out, rip. It because obvious when she wanted to whimper, moan, because her teeth would sink into the flesh of her hand, grinding in to dirtied white glove and flesh.
“… You really are stupid, Shiro-Megane-Kun.” She could have laughed.
>>>
It was not hot in the small room, but Ishida was sweating. Nerves, despite his cloak of calm? The sheer effort of concentration, of doubting the function, his motive, the point. His glasses slid down his nose, and Ishida was forced to stay his hand, jerk his shoulder up to his bent face and knock them into place. She moved and he ignored it, whether the fidgeting pull of her palm to her mouth or the clench of her thighs, supplementary elements of the constituent on which he focused.
He didn't realize his teeth were ground together until he meant to grit them, and could not, could barely separate his jaw. Her words produced an irritable scowl, and he thought of the tea he could have been sipping, jade with a little mint. The worst of it was, there was little way he could argue it: as far as Ishida could see, the Thunderwitch's deduction was quite correct, and it made him petulant.
"I could stop," He jabbed, with words and not needle, the motions of his wrist and fingers even, steady, quite precise, though it felt as if his fingers would slide slick in sweat within the gloves. "Of coure," he now muttered, driven to voicing his inner-monologue by the tension of the situation, "It might be just as well that I do, and find Zaheela-san to remedy whatever I've done."
And yet, he was near finished.
>>>
“… You won’t.” The Thunderwitch’s eyes finally closed, both a denial of her shame and a reluctant surrender to his ministrations, bloodied lips twisting into a smirk of a smile, more a smile, than anything.
“You’re too stupid and nice to leave me like this, Shiro-Megane-Kun, and fuck,” She sucked in breath and whimpered with a particularly less gentle jab of his needle, “I hate it.” Dark purple, nearly black hair clung to sweat dampened forehead, neck, made the dirty remnants of a dress uniform cling, made her dirtier than she already was.
“… You can’t.” But there was almost a pleading sound to that last one. Buried deep inside, below where she would even be aware of it herself. Please don’t leave me to die. Not like you did before. Please don’t leave me alone.
>>>
His eyes flitted in brief to her face, observing the fluctuation of emotion, surrender, as his fingers tugged the thread, skin pulled together, and he looping a tight knot. He should have felt a flush of victory, of pride, but Ishida did not operate in order to flaunt his generosity—his stupidity, really. He acted for entirely other, if equally selfish, reasons. The contrast of her hair to her face, pallor made white from blood loss, was dramatic, distracting if he let it be, and he didn't.
"… I can," he reminded her, needing to remind her, but the words lacked spine. Her pleading, never meant for his ears, had slaughtered the intention he had never really begun to have.
Ishida finished without further retort, the last knot made firm and his fingers sagging with loosening muscle in his back. He examined the stitching with a critical eye, wanting to wince: it was ugly, but he dropped the needle and little remaining thread into the pot, and bent at the waist, tugging a sopping cloth from the bin. He fisted his hands around it and twisted before letting it fall to her hand not incapacitated by that shoulder.
Ishida coughed, glancing at her skirt, then turned bodily away. He did not blush, but wouldn't dare to try and tend to her there. Quietly, "… You'll have to… take it easy. The stitches are, maybe, adequate, but…" they wouldn't hold against an Arrancar's strength.
>>>
Cirucci knew what he wanted her to do, as he spoke slowly hauling herself up. One attempt, a shaking in her muscles, another attempt the stab of pain in her abdomen, another and she managed a loose, hunched over sit, dragging her legs up and apart, eyeing the wet cloth.
She didn’t speak, didn’t need to, eyes hooded as she pressed the cloth under her skirt and slowly cleaned, wiped the drying blood from her thighs, the sticky remnants of a forced arousal and a forced shame, grit her teeth and forced the cloth deeper than she should, wanted the feel of it, the feel of him out of her, fingers sticky and wet, eyed deadened against the sight, finished cleaning and sloughing the Espada from her before she dropped the cloth, limp, slumping against the wall, panting lightly.
Her shoulder hung too wrong, elbow faced the wrong way, the burns rubbing against the blood on her right side, eyes slipping closed half a second, almost slipping to unconsciousness but hanging on, couldn’t be that weak, but was, was made so, had been so and was now.
>>>
As Cirucci tended to herself, Ishida stared through the open door of his bedroom and down the hall. He could see the ends of his couch, the light reflecting on the glass of his coffee table, the chairs where he and Light had sat only a handful of hours earlier. This, instinctively taking in the enemy, a monster, caring for its—her injuries. What was wrong with him? It left an ache behind his school, a weariness making heavy his bones, a chagrin at his inexplicable sympathy that, no doubt, would Ryuuken learn of it, would earn him only scorn.
Ishida could only hope that her shame would equal her to the task of shutting up about this, not gloating to a single soul, and so it could be swept under a rug and forgotten. Raising his arm, he moved to wipe the back of his hand against his forehead and thought better of it, the mess that his glove was. At least it would keep him from having to touch the cloth. Hearing it fall and her body shift, Ishida turned back, regarding her shoulder.
It was plain that it would have to be popped back, and Ishida felt glad for the strength in his arms. It would have been quite humiliating to not be up to task. The possibility of her reacting from the inevitable pain of it and lashing out was a small one, as it was plain that the Thunderwitch was exhausted. Ishida picked up the cloth, dropped it into the bin, and stripped off the gloves before he reached over.
He opened his mouth, to warn her, to brace her, but before he could find the appropriate words, his arms had already found action. Ishida with a twist and thrust, popped the bone into place with a sound so sickening, so crisp, he cringed.
>>>
Ishida winced. Cirucci screamed.
Her arm bent, shoved back into place, back into socket, the bone grating back against bone, fitting back where it should have been, stretched and abused muscles forced back to original position, a painful, wrenching feel and her vision blacked, mouth open to pant and shudder as she sagged forward onto the Quincy, couldn’t comprehend how come her good hand was now brushing fabric, not sheet, why, when she opened her mouth to suck back in air she felt warmth, that of another body.
“Shiro… Mega-“ She started to insult him, how dare he just do that, but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, and her hand grasped weakly at his shirt as she struggled to stay awake. Not weak, not weak, not weak. “Megane… Kun… ?” Her uniform was too tight, she couldn’t breath. It was hazy, and it was dulling, the pain she'd been blocking out, the wear and tear on her body catching up in a crash.
>>>
Because it could not have been avoided, the only regret Ishida felt was for his eardrums. His shoulders hitched further at her shriek of pain, but he felt a surge of relief, of something weary and smug. But he could not relax: the Privaron fell against him, and Ishida found himself sitting half on the bed, his arm caught in another reflexive swoop around her.
It was reflex, too, to pull away, now that she was in part mended, even if she wavered on the brink of collapse. He leaned back, his arm slipping from her. "Ishida Uryuu," He insisted, a pointless nitpick, that old losing battle.
That old losing battle. He leaned back but his hand caught hers as it grasped for his shirt, solid and closing around it. Her skin was cold, like ice against the warmth of his palm, his fingers clenching in a loose squeeze. "It's over," he said, his voice mild and his glasses slipping and his logic having long gone on strike. "I'm here."
He couldn't imagine it was a comfort to her, it certainly wasn't one to him, but he said it nonetheless.
>>>
Everything wavered. Her strength wavered, her vision wavered, her body wavered, trembling in pain, the pain of her shoulder wrenched back into place, of the burns on her side, the blow to the side of her head, damn it, inside of her, everything hurt and it came crashing down on her, making her eyes dull and glaze over, beginning to lose focus.
“Shi-” He’d corrected her and she managed a wry smirk, a bark of bitter laugher. “Ishi-” But she couldn’t seem to complete the word, was laboring for breath, and his hand, it was warm and she clutched at it instinctively, voice rising, panicked, when she realized she was losing touch.
“Don’t-” She struggled to stay conscious. “Don’t-” Cirucci tried to shake her head furiously but it was only the slow lull of her neck. “Don’t te-” She grit her teeth, gripped his hand hard with nails like talons digging in. “Don’t tell him where-” It was supposed to be an order, looking like that, as weak as she was, and she hated herself, for being such a weak person, sometimes, for being Privaron.
“Don’t tell him where I am…” The Thunderwitch finally managed, slumping forward again, barely catching herself, eyes hooded, before she simply fell limp, eyes rolling back into her head as she blacked out.
>>>
If Ishida had been told at the dawning of the day that it would end with the Thunderwitch broken and clinging to him, pleading for sanctuary, he would have looked askance at the messenger before telling him or her in no uncertain terms that she or he was quite insane. His breathing became a sharp hiss as she clawed into his hand, without his retracting, as he strained to make sense of her words.
When given meaning, he could have chided her for wasting them on something futile. The reasons for Ishida doing no such thing were many and varied. He looked at her, looked down at her as he eased her back, back to the white-cased pillow. His blue eyes were wide and soft, pained in a way best called pathetic, emotions best weeded out of his system long ago. Yet his hands were gentle, gentle, as he eased the quilt and sheets from beneath her, and over her.
After cleaning up, gloves and bin and cloths and pot, Ishida hunched over the kitchen table, seated in the not very comfortable chair, his hands folded beneath his chin. It struck him that it was late, he was tired, and yet he had let the Thunderwitch into his bed. It struck him that he would be on the couch, tonight, for a monster better left dead and bleeding, a sentiment he could have shared, had she not looked like a woman and bled from violation and the whims of a much stronger monster, not a fight but a slaughter.
"I," he mused aloud, "am a fool." Ishida informed the table, a fair impression of the father in the son. A sentimental fool.
Rating; PG-13
Characters; Cirucci {
thunderwitch} & Ishida {anti_buttons}Summary; After fleeing Noitora's wrath over what she can and cannot say about his fracción, Cirucci seeks safety in the nearest building without considering who could be living inside.
Log;
A slow day lead to a slower night, broken up only by a somewhat trying visit with Yagami-san and coffee. Ishida had begun work on the dress requested by Kira the day before. After a morning visit to the Range, he had spent the afternoon with needle and machine, met with
Yagami-san, and now, stood over the table in his kitchen, deliberating on what book, rented from the Library, to next begin. The City routine, somewhat broken up, or given more flavor, by the necessity of employment, had begun again.
A kettle on the stove had not yet steamed into hissing, enough water inside for two cups, as Ishida had carried personal routine to the City as well. After another minute, his hands fell onto a book, and turning over its stiff cover, flipped pages to the first. Ishida stepped back from the table, his neck bent toward the volume even as he maintained a loose posture. His hip jutted against the counter beside the stove, and he read, waiting for his tea.
>>>
It hurt, it hurt, it fucking hurt. It always hurt when he got mad at her. He never put off his violence or his anger, and honestly, she’d been asking for it. Picking at Tesla, mocking him… and yet, at the same time, her pride, that damnable pride that was always getting her into trouble, wouldn’t allow her to just keep quiet while he went about his business. She had to mock the Espada, especially had to mock the fifth, the Quinta… her rank.
Cirucci Thunderwitch wasn’t quite sure which building she was near anymore, she just stumbled in the nearest one. Roof, roof, wanted to get to the roof, could maybe get to the roof of her own building that way, get to her apartment and lay down to die. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration. Lay down and ache, more like. The 105th dragged herself slowly up the stairs, bruised legs quaking occasionally, small hands every now and then having to brace on the wall and pause to pant, to wipe a spot of blood off her crushed lips, to sneer at the sticky feeling between her legs, and continue. Fucking Espada. Another step. Fucking Quinta. A low growl that ended in a groan of pain. Fucking Noitora.
She’d had to wait, bide her time and take it, until he had stopped to mock her again, stopped to take a break and watch her choke on her shame. But she’d bolted, instead.
Elevator… there was one of those, right? The Privaron detoured, leaving the stairwell to stagger down the hallway, glad no one was out. She would hate to have to kill someone in this state for seeing her so weak, so bloody, so used. Hated it, hated that her steps were slow and trembling, sore, that she stumbled and had to catch herself on the wall, sliding down tiredly. But no one was around, so it was okay, was too weak to catch the hidden reiatsu behind the door she leaned again, hanging her head.
Fuck.
>>>
Ever sensitive to reiatsu, he detected her well before she had entered the building. Hairs lifted along the back of his neck and a thin, near invisible line of tension settled against his shoulders, his eyes focusing no longer on the black-printed words. The Thunderwitch had made her "claim" on him so persistent that, even after his time away, longer for the City and so aggravatingly brief for his mind: the rush of irritation, it was near instinct: Ishida scowled, his eyes already rolling. Really, he should have been surprised she hadn't come sooner.
This time, however, instinct was short-lived, replaced fast by suspicion. Her reiatsu fluctuated, at times swelling in bursts that were never quite intimidating, at others as weak as a heartbeat. He could reason out any number of causes, of motivations for the Thunderwitch, and yet, neither fit well-enough with what he knew of her. Ishida, noting the page number before he shut it, set the book onto the counter, unsurprised that the pressure of her spirit power stopped at his door. A dull sound reached through the walls – his brow furrowed, and Ishida waited.
Not for very long . He had no intention of tolerating the wavering taunt of her reiatsu outside his door all night, and strode with purpose to the front door. Pulling it open with a solid jerk, Ishida opened his mouth to demand a simple expulsion, and luckily, his reflexes proved more capable than his mind, shocked when the Privaron toppled bodily backwards, the support of the door removed from her.
"Wh-what—?!" he sputtered, but he did not jump back in a panic, instead catching her easily, a fluid response, on arm around her shoulders and another stabilizing at her legs. Ishida would have been tempted to drop her, knowing it was her, only—with ever-widening eyes, he took in the Privaron's state, and rather forgot his clutch on disgust.
>>>
She hated that the first thing out of her mouth was a whimper, when muscles she had let limp had to suddenly tense again when her support was yanked out from under her, had to tense in anticipation of hitting the floor. But she didn’t hit the floor, and now that he was right there she could tell who it was. Of all the- He’d not… which building was this…
Several emotions flit easily readable across her face. Shock. Disgust. Anger. Shame. Small hands finally moved, grabbed the hemline of her dress that was riding up her thighs and exposing the bruises in the shape of fingers, tugging it down as subtly as she could. He couldn’t… no one was allowed to see her like this, especially not him.
Cirucci wanted to speak, to yell at him or say something, anything, that could preserve her dignity, regain a little pride, but she opened her mouth and no words came out, had to double over to cough on blood instead, feel crimson running down her chin, body burning and flushed with shame from this weakness.
>>>
It had to be a trap. Ishida watched with too-alert comprehension at the emotions on her face, in his ears that sound too bizarre coming from her, that whimper. His eyes followed the movements of her hands, his own unmoving in his stupor. He didn't understand, yet, what it all meant, or why she should be here, looking as displeased with it as he had been only seconds before.
Then, blood. Ishida nearly recoiled, only blood wasn't new to him, and a fatal concern began to pierce the veil of his bewilderment. What, he wanted to say, mouthed it again, why, but instead forced his voice to business, brisk and hard, an attempt to cover his worry for a woman, no, an Arrancar he didn't care for in the least. The least.
"Can you stand?" He asked, his grip on her shoulder shifting as his fingers found a more solid hold. His other hand lifted, dipped into a pocket and retried a blue handkerchief, which he gently mopped over her chin and mouth. Ishida looked her over once more, stepping over panic to consider the evidence of her wounds, searching for cause and appropriate treatment. Ishida could handle basic first aid with little problem, but anything else… Trap, his mind insisted, but in this moment the Privaron looked a broken woman, and Ishida failed to see anything else.
>>>
“I-“ She tried to bark it out, commanding, powerful, but it came out weak and she hated it, soft and gurgling. The Privaron began to struggle, not so much at him so much as to stand, recoiling somewhat from the gentle touch of hankerchief on her bruised lips, responses bringing winces from her, aggravating a reddened cheek, the purple tint to one eye.
“I’m fine-“ She got out, struggling weakly to her feet, as she did wincing again, trying to hide it, anything to try and hide it, hide that struggling up bared her thighs, the bruises there and the smears of blood and something else, grasping at the doorframe with both dirtied hands to support herself.
“What-“ She tried to sneer but it was half-hearted, too much effort right now. “Do you care any-“ Her eyelashes fluttered, felt dizzy and the room spun, almost sending her crashing to the floor again but she held on, purple eyes dazed. “Way…”
>>>
Ishida could see that she looked awful; it was uncomfortable to look even to analyze, and the product of the analysis should have been obvious, only the answer was too terrible for him to readily accept. Even for her. Her let her struggle, somewhat relieved when she managed to stand and he could let go. Narrowed eyes observed her without blinking, anticipating a second fall.
"Of course you are," fine, Ishida said, in a tone that could rival sandpaper, "and of course, I don't—" finished as he chose to avoid another possible fall and, putting aside embarrassment for necessity, swept her off her feet, an arm under her neck and an other under her knees. He walked as if he knew where he meant to put her, but at the last second decided against the couch, which wasn't quite long enough for her to be comfortable, which did not provide as much space as the other, somewhat aggravating option—he turned and carried the Thunderwitch into his bedroom, setting her onto his quilt, over fresh changed sheets.
What had happened, the necessary deduction, had begun to dawn on him, and he grimaced with a mixture of horror and disgust as he pivoted away from the sight. Ishida retreated to his bathroom, crouching to retrieve a first aid kid from under the sink, as well as a few washcloths from the hamper.
>>>
“What the fu-“ She hadn’t even protested once he picked her up, delicate form light, avian in that respect, though lacking the easily breakable hollow bones. Her entire body tensed, grimacing as he pressed into bruisings and sensitive places, made her bite down on her lip and just be shocked. Why was he- She needed to leave- This wasn’t-
Her thoughts were as muddled as her sight, still somewhat dazes from a blow to the head that had left the side of her head bloodied, from the other hits, the fist in her face and the slaps against her cheek, one, two, until she admitted anything that was wanted from her. And it was so damned ironic, his bed, he was putting her there, that as he left she started to laugh, a bitter, almost manic noise, wheezy and breathless, body half curling in on itself, hands arranging, tugging down her skirt hem though that did no good to hide the evidence of shame, arranging collar so that the rips where her dress had been torn off didn’t bare anything but collar bone, one hand covering her eyes as she laughed bitterly.
This was too shameful. Too funny.
>>>
Her laughter followed him, but he had ignored it, trudging on with his intention despite all reason. A wash bin, located beneath the pipes, he filled with warm water. Distancing himself from the taut, reflexive outrage at her state was a difficult thing, outrage at obvious rape, something impossible to stomach, one of what he knew to be unforgivable. What he needed to do, he recognized, was concentrate on her injuries and how best to treat them, even with his insufficient medical knowledge. Even with her being what she was.
With the bin, cloths, and kit larger than the portable one he kept in his bag, Ishida returned to his room, to the crumpled Arrancar, her shoulder jutting at its unnatural angle, the numerous, numerous lesions, swellings of skin and color, blood lining her waist and smeared on her thighs. Resolve was a grimace, curiosity as to who suppressed. He set the bin onto his bedside table, the kit on the edge of the bed, where he snapped it open. Gloves were retrieved, slid on.
Ishida dipped one cloth into the water, lifted it free and squeezed, turning his attention to her waist. To get a better look at the wound, he attempted to peel back the probably tear in her uniform, eyes narrowed behind his glasses, his touch clinical.
"…You'd have been luckier outside Ryuuken's door," he remarked, a backhanded compliment to his father's ability as a doctor, and his own inexperience.
>>>
Her laughter choked out, died in her throat when he came back in the room. Her eyes widened, dilating, not in… not in fear, no, but…
“What are you-“ She tried to shy away from his hands, throat bobbing nervously but it ended in her arm giving out with a barely there flutter, the shoulder popping ominously, as she fell back, trying to curl away, move and avoid, but nothing responded right and she hated it-
“I’d-“ She choked, on bile, on blood, hand rising to try and rub blood off her face but ended up slipping and smearing crimson over the starch white bone mask on her forehead. “Be better off back with- Back with Noitora-“ She tried to laugh again but it came out harsh and far too loud.
“Going to kill me Quincy?” She lay on her back, grinning up and peeling her uniform away where his hand was, baring the crescent moon cut of the Espada’s zanpakutou, a cut that was repetitive, over and over on her hips when she’d thrashed and bucked against the pin.
>>>
Could have winced at the sound of her shoulder, Ishida could have rolled his eyes again and made a retort to her unfinished question, but he stilled, in brief, to watch her weak squirming. Something soft, strained, unreadable settled in his eyes, something like sympathy, that dangerous, stupid foothold of his.
Noitora, then, and Ishida filed away the information, his disgust with the Espada. Her laugh was grating, and his teeth gritted in his mouth, the muscles in his jaw close to aching. "By all means," he said, a dry taunt that very much doubted her ability to even stand, never mind wander back to the Espada. She exposed her skin, and for the moment, he did not answer, instead taking in the cut. The shape of it told him she'd struggled.
Ishida began to clean the wound, at least mop up enough blood to observe its depth. He could deduce the reasoning behind it, not to cut her in half, but… He shook his head. "Killing you would be pointless, Thunderwitch. About as pointless as what I am doing, and will do."
>>>
An insult bubbled to her throat but it died, cut off with a choked back whimper and her legs kicked out weakly, writhing in pain at the touches on the wound, knees drawing up and trying to curl in but failing, only aggravated the bruisings all along her thighs and higher, working arm moving to cover her face, her lips trembling as her legs moved in spasms.
“I fucking hate you…” The Thunderwitch grit out but it had no fire in it, not much of her usual pride or flair. Just a broken statement. And in that moment she hated him more than she ever had before, because he was seeing her like this, seeing her so weak and so injured, so used and dirty and foul and-
“Fuck-” She tried to laugh again but that died too, shriveled with her pride and burned. “Damn it…” She went limp, shoulder twisted out and oddly angled, fingers twitching sporadically and the ones covering her face scrabbling weakly over her eyes, bruised lips twisted into a sneer of self-hate.
>>>
"You'll only aggravate things, thereby increasing the pain, if you keep moving," Ishida said, a monotonous reprimand, the cloth slipping beneath the sliding of her skin, watery red trailing thin around the wound. His free hand hesitated to be a steadying force on her hip, to touch her even through the glove.
She hated him, and he failed to see the irony, weeks and weeks ago his own desperation to not receive aid in his sickness from the Thunderwitch, to maintain his pride and absence of debt. She hated him—Ishida heard it with apathy, and did not overanalyze his reasons. Once having cleaned away excess with the cloth, he dipped and squeezed through the basin, fishing from the kit alcohol wipes and bandaging.
"This will burn," he added, before making use of the wipes, tempted to laugh himself as her laughter died. What was he doing, his mind wondered, underneath this summoned front of detached assistance.
Helping the Thunderwitch, who no doubt deserved whatever she had got – couldn't think that, not really, not when it was what was unforgivable, and there Ishida made her too human, again – letting her bleed on his bed and writhe and curse him. He wanted to scowl at himself, did, briefly, the twist on his thin lips shaping before he could and did return it to the line of indifference. Doubt had no place here, now, and he shook it from mind, free to thrash himself later.
>>>
At his hand, on her hip, pressing down on her hip, the Privaron stiffened, eyes flying open and her hand leaving her face, revealing one that, while not blatantly readable, hide thinly veiled fear. Fear, overwhelming fear of something recent and horrifying. The fear of that blade around her middle and the threat that if she didn’t say the right things, moan the right things, beg the right things, that the blade would snick down just a little bit, just enough until she was more than one piece.
There was little doubt in her mind that she had barely managed to say enough of the right things to escape that this time, to escape the cero in her face that instead burned her side, the thrashing rubbing it bloody again, managed to beg the right way to make sure her awkward shoulder was only dislocated, wasn’t ripped free by bony fingers.
“No.” She choked out, writhing harder and bucking up against his hand, nothing strong, wasn’t capable of anything that was a strong movement right now, serving now only to reopen half closed wounds, renew a trickle of blood between her legs, make her breath shallow and fast.
>>>
No -- the transparent fear on her face, in her eyes around which purple skin swelled, her reaction that so went against all of his previous understandings of the Thunderwitch, made him recoil. She bucked and his hand shot back as if it had been burned, and Ishida took a step back, his face pinched into a fleeting expression of panic, of dismay, he would never, and all at once, his entire thrown on persona of rigid, stern professional crumbled.
The wipe was crumpled in his hand, and pinkish alcohol had dripped over the end of the glove, making a small drip over his pale wrist, stopping in brief against the chain of his Quincy pendant. What had been done to her, it's association with him, his unwillingness to see her like this and do nothing, was overwhelming, but he focused on the last, summoning back his nerve.
"Y-you would need stitches or – " Well, the help of any remarkable City healer, Zaheela-san one of them. Ishida had stitched countless tears in stuffed animals and fabric within a heartbeat, yet skin and blood was different. "But, for now, I'll just…"
He trailed off, lapsing into an irritating spell of uncertainty.
>>>
She trembled, quieted again, flushing in shame. Shame, that she would react like that… this wasn’t Noitora. That human boy, as hated, as… as reviled as he was, wasn’t as reviled and hated as Noitora was. When he opened his mouth to speak it wasn’t the number five, not her number five on his tongue. He didn’t grin, that manic, horrible grin that promised to make her scream. His hands weren’t those hands, those bony, long fingers hands that tangled in her hair and yanked, that ripped white fabric and pressed her face into the ground.
“…” The Privaron’s shame, her fear, had been betrayed by her body and she knew she couldn’t take it back, could only cling to some shred of dignity and fist her working hand, the other one twitching in response, eyes staring hard at the ceiling.
“Just fix it.” She grit out, stiff lipped, stilling the motions in her hips, in her body, trembling in self-loathing, in anger at herself, more than anything else.
>>>
The color on her cheeks could have been caused by anything, and Ishida did not immediately identify shame, too caught up in his own relief that she had come to a degree of sense, and no longer equated him with the Espada. That she then requested his help furthered his resolve, only, stitching a wound had to be, was different from stitching an animated stuffed "lion", though he hadn't skimmed his father's books in years by virtue of forced distance. Self-doubt was unlike him, though he had read about the treatment of various wounds so to be capable of treating himself and not running to the loathed Hospital in the event of a Hollow related injury. He had read of the process, but never had to employ it.
Yet, that had been more than enough in every other circumstance, and among Ishida's faults there was an absolute… overconfidence in his own ability. His decision, on the brink of finality, was given the final push by a shrill, high-pitched sound: the teapot.
Ishida started, jumping more with his upper body, but did not lose hold of the wipe, and looked over his shoulder, toward the open door. His mouth shaped into a thin, curling smirk. It was a little ironic.
Without another word, he left the room, collection the teapot and fetching a saucepan into which to pour the boiling water. Carrying it to the bedroom, he gripped the wash bin one-handed to set it on the floor and the pot in its place. His sewing kit then fetched from a drawer, Ishida tried not to laugh at the sheer absurdity of a sixteen year old moderate seamster presuming to stitch a wound like hers – and, after sterilizing a needle and length of black thread, confirming the wound to be as clean as he could discern, braced himself and set to the task.
It was slower than working with something stuffed—one stitch at a time, plunging the needle through the cut, inching it out the other side, pulling the skin taut, knotting the thread. Repeat. It was absolutely insane.
>>>
In, rip, out, rip, in, rip, out, rip. It was a motion something altogether remnisicient of another, dirtier act, but this hurt so much less than that one, was shameful, that she would be needing it, but was so much less shameful than the other act.
The Privaron was far too stiff, tense and nervous, disgusted and ashamed, feeling blood leaking from the burns on her side, the sticky, tacky blood between her legs that she unconsciously drew together, pressed her thighs together until it hurt, the dried blood on the side of her head, on her hands and in the wound he was sewing up.
In, rip, out, rip, in, rip, out, rip. It because obvious when she wanted to whimper, moan, because her teeth would sink into the flesh of her hand, grinding in to dirtied white glove and flesh.
“… You really are stupid, Shiro-Megane-Kun.” She could have laughed.
>>>
It was not hot in the small room, but Ishida was sweating. Nerves, despite his cloak of calm? The sheer effort of concentration, of doubting the function, his motive, the point. His glasses slid down his nose, and Ishida was forced to stay his hand, jerk his shoulder up to his bent face and knock them into place. She moved and he ignored it, whether the fidgeting pull of her palm to her mouth or the clench of her thighs, supplementary elements of the constituent on which he focused.
He didn't realize his teeth were ground together until he meant to grit them, and could not, could barely separate his jaw. Her words produced an irritable scowl, and he thought of the tea he could have been sipping, jade with a little mint. The worst of it was, there was little way he could argue it: as far as Ishida could see, the Thunderwitch's deduction was quite correct, and it made him petulant.
"I could stop," He jabbed, with words and not needle, the motions of his wrist and fingers even, steady, quite precise, though it felt as if his fingers would slide slick in sweat within the gloves. "Of coure," he now muttered, driven to voicing his inner-monologue by the tension of the situation, "It might be just as well that I do, and find Zaheela-san to remedy whatever I've done."
And yet, he was near finished.
>>>
“… You won’t.” The Thunderwitch’s eyes finally closed, both a denial of her shame and a reluctant surrender to his ministrations, bloodied lips twisting into a smirk of a smile, more a smile, than anything.
“You’re too stupid and nice to leave me like this, Shiro-Megane-Kun, and fuck,” She sucked in breath and whimpered with a particularly less gentle jab of his needle, “I hate it.” Dark purple, nearly black hair clung to sweat dampened forehead, neck, made the dirty remnants of a dress uniform cling, made her dirtier than she already was.
“… You can’t.” But there was almost a pleading sound to that last one. Buried deep inside, below where she would even be aware of it herself. Please don’t leave me to die. Not like you did before. Please don’t leave me alone.
>>>
His eyes flitted in brief to her face, observing the fluctuation of emotion, surrender, as his fingers tugged the thread, skin pulled together, and he looping a tight knot. He should have felt a flush of victory, of pride, but Ishida did not operate in order to flaunt his generosity—his stupidity, really. He acted for entirely other, if equally selfish, reasons. The contrast of her hair to her face, pallor made white from blood loss, was dramatic, distracting if he let it be, and he didn't.
"… I can," he reminded her, needing to remind her, but the words lacked spine. Her pleading, never meant for his ears, had slaughtered the intention he had never really begun to have.
Ishida finished without further retort, the last knot made firm and his fingers sagging with loosening muscle in his back. He examined the stitching with a critical eye, wanting to wince: it was ugly, but he dropped the needle and little remaining thread into the pot, and bent at the waist, tugging a sopping cloth from the bin. He fisted his hands around it and twisted before letting it fall to her hand not incapacitated by that shoulder.
Ishida coughed, glancing at her skirt, then turned bodily away. He did not blush, but wouldn't dare to try and tend to her there. Quietly, "… You'll have to… take it easy. The stitches are, maybe, adequate, but…" they wouldn't hold against an Arrancar's strength.
>>>
Cirucci knew what he wanted her to do, as he spoke slowly hauling herself up. One attempt, a shaking in her muscles, another attempt the stab of pain in her abdomen, another and she managed a loose, hunched over sit, dragging her legs up and apart, eyeing the wet cloth.
She didn’t speak, didn’t need to, eyes hooded as she pressed the cloth under her skirt and slowly cleaned, wiped the drying blood from her thighs, the sticky remnants of a forced arousal and a forced shame, grit her teeth and forced the cloth deeper than she should, wanted the feel of it, the feel of him out of her, fingers sticky and wet, eyed deadened against the sight, finished cleaning and sloughing the Espada from her before she dropped the cloth, limp, slumping against the wall, panting lightly.
Her shoulder hung too wrong, elbow faced the wrong way, the burns rubbing against the blood on her right side, eyes slipping closed half a second, almost slipping to unconsciousness but hanging on, couldn’t be that weak, but was, was made so, had been so and was now.
>>>
As Cirucci tended to herself, Ishida stared through the open door of his bedroom and down the hall. He could see the ends of his couch, the light reflecting on the glass of his coffee table, the chairs where he and Light had sat only a handful of hours earlier. This, instinctively taking in the enemy, a monster, caring for its—her injuries. What was wrong with him? It left an ache behind his school, a weariness making heavy his bones, a chagrin at his inexplicable sympathy that, no doubt, would Ryuuken learn of it, would earn him only scorn.
Ishida could only hope that her shame would equal her to the task of shutting up about this, not gloating to a single soul, and so it could be swept under a rug and forgotten. Raising his arm, he moved to wipe the back of his hand against his forehead and thought better of it, the mess that his glove was. At least it would keep him from having to touch the cloth. Hearing it fall and her body shift, Ishida turned back, regarding her shoulder.
It was plain that it would have to be popped back, and Ishida felt glad for the strength in his arms. It would have been quite humiliating to not be up to task. The possibility of her reacting from the inevitable pain of it and lashing out was a small one, as it was plain that the Thunderwitch was exhausted. Ishida picked up the cloth, dropped it into the bin, and stripped off the gloves before he reached over.
He opened his mouth, to warn her, to brace her, but before he could find the appropriate words, his arms had already found action. Ishida with a twist and thrust, popped the bone into place with a sound so sickening, so crisp, he cringed.
>>>
Ishida winced. Cirucci screamed.
Her arm bent, shoved back into place, back into socket, the bone grating back against bone, fitting back where it should have been, stretched and abused muscles forced back to original position, a painful, wrenching feel and her vision blacked, mouth open to pant and shudder as she sagged forward onto the Quincy, couldn’t comprehend how come her good hand was now brushing fabric, not sheet, why, when she opened her mouth to suck back in air she felt warmth, that of another body.
“Shiro… Mega-“ She started to insult him, how dare he just do that, but she couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, and her hand grasped weakly at his shirt as she struggled to stay awake. Not weak, not weak, not weak. “Megane… Kun… ?” Her uniform was too tight, she couldn’t breath. It was hazy, and it was dulling, the pain she'd been blocking out, the wear and tear on her body catching up in a crash.
>>>
Because it could not have been avoided, the only regret Ishida felt was for his eardrums. His shoulders hitched further at her shriek of pain, but he felt a surge of relief, of something weary and smug. But he could not relax: the Privaron fell against him, and Ishida found himself sitting half on the bed, his arm caught in another reflexive swoop around her.
It was reflex, too, to pull away, now that she was in part mended, even if she wavered on the brink of collapse. He leaned back, his arm slipping from her. "Ishida Uryuu," He insisted, a pointless nitpick, that old losing battle.
That old losing battle. He leaned back but his hand caught hers as it grasped for his shirt, solid and closing around it. Her skin was cold, like ice against the warmth of his palm, his fingers clenching in a loose squeeze. "It's over," he said, his voice mild and his glasses slipping and his logic having long gone on strike. "I'm here."
He couldn't imagine it was a comfort to her, it certainly wasn't one to him, but he said it nonetheless.
>>>
Everything wavered. Her strength wavered, her vision wavered, her body wavered, trembling in pain, the pain of her shoulder wrenched back into place, of the burns on her side, the blow to the side of her head, damn it, inside of her, everything hurt and it came crashing down on her, making her eyes dull and glaze over, beginning to lose focus.
“Shi-” He’d corrected her and she managed a wry smirk, a bark of bitter laugher. “Ishi-” But she couldn’t seem to complete the word, was laboring for breath, and his hand, it was warm and she clutched at it instinctively, voice rising, panicked, when she realized she was losing touch.
“Don’t-” She struggled to stay conscious. “Don’t-” Cirucci tried to shake her head furiously but it was only the slow lull of her neck. “Don’t te-” She grit her teeth, gripped his hand hard with nails like talons digging in. “Don’t tell him where-” It was supposed to be an order, looking like that, as weak as she was, and she hated herself, for being such a weak person, sometimes, for being Privaron.
“Don’t tell him where I am…” The Thunderwitch finally managed, slumping forward again, barely catching herself, eyes hooded, before she simply fell limp, eyes rolling back into her head as she blacked out.
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If Ishida had been told at the dawning of the day that it would end with the Thunderwitch broken and clinging to him, pleading for sanctuary, he would have looked askance at the messenger before telling him or her in no uncertain terms that she or he was quite insane. His breathing became a sharp hiss as she clawed into his hand, without his retracting, as he strained to make sense of her words.
When given meaning, he could have chided her for wasting them on something futile. The reasons for Ishida doing no such thing were many and varied. He looked at her, looked down at her as he eased her back, back to the white-cased pillow. His blue eyes were wide and soft, pained in a way best called pathetic, emotions best weeded out of his system long ago. Yet his hands were gentle, gentle, as he eased the quilt and sheets from beneath her, and over her.
After cleaning up, gloves and bin and cloths and pot, Ishida hunched over the kitchen table, seated in the not very comfortable chair, his hands folded beneath his chin. It struck him that it was late, he was tired, and yet he had let the Thunderwitch into his bed. It struck him that he would be on the couch, tonight, for a monster better left dead and bleeding, a sentiment he could have shared, had she not looked like a woman and bled from violation and the whims of a much stronger monster, not a fight but a slaughter.
"I," he mused aloud, "am a fool." Ishida informed the table, a fair impression of the father in the son. A sentimental fool.